Of course this post has nothing to do with sports, don't be silly

Ha ha, Utah, fooled you.

Boston vs. Carolina: Sweet Zombie Jesus how the fuck the Devils gave up the game-tying and game-losing goal in the last 90 seconds I'll never know because I'm currently sober and therefore not as open to transdimensional cosmic theories as much as I'd like. Sure, rooting for a devastating natural force such as a hurricane is a get-the-juices-flowing quite alright gig, but it doesn't get the BLOOOOOD 'A CHAINSAW SPATTERIN' BLEEARRRRGH! like cheering for the Unholy Master of the Black Pit. Back on this island earth full of tasty swine just dying to be part of my next BLT, Boston owns Carolina this year, 4-0 with a goal aggregate of 18-6. Yeah, small sample size, but maybe this is the year they finally exorcise the rookie ghost of Ken Dryden, the apparition of Ray Bourque and the poltergeist of Don Cherry's wardrobe. Bruins in six.

Washington vs. Pittsburgh: What a ratings bonanza! I predict a 3.2 share, good for 198th. People, Alex Fucking Ovechkin, Evgeni Fucking Malkin, Sidney Fucking Crosby. What more do you want?

Dear Hockey Gods,

Please let this series go seven, with at least four overtime games.

Make it five.

Love, Randal.

Speaking of Don Cherry a few paragraphs, albeit small ones, later, I hope Ovechkin scores and celebrates with ostentatious Louis XIV aplomb about 752 times, which should be enough to give that Canucklehead a legendary apoplectic fit on camera. Penguins in seven.

Detroit vs. Anaheim: The 2006 Oilers, also seeded eighth, made it to game seven of the Stanley Cup. Anaheim, despite having a dumber nickname -- go to Guantanamo, descendants of the Anti-Semitic Corpse of Walt Disney -- has more talent than those guys. Of course, conventional wisdom says the Red Wings should win, but I'm not a fan of conventions (too crowded and the freebies are always cheap trinkets) nor of wisdom (requires brain illumination). I still ain't picking the Ducks. I don't care what he did in the quarterfinals: do you trust the funny Jonas brother? Red Wings in six.

Vancouver vs. Chicago: No one, outside of Roberto Luongo's mom or an inebriated Blackhawks fan -- but I repeat myself -- saw this semifinal matchup coming way back in October. It's all about the goalies and before you tell me that the Bulin Wall has won a cup whereas Robbie the Robot (I have no idea if he has such a nickname in British Columbia, or if he's even a mechanical man, but he does have a lifetime playoff GAA of 1.63 in 16 starts) hasn't, I'll tell you that Havlat/Kane/Toews isn't St.Louis/Lecavalier/Stillman. Yet. Canucks in seven.

Closed thread

Duuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I've got zip. A shit paper, an oral presentation that I haven't even started on and frankly don't care about all that much, not a single line of verse in about a month has been written, and the mouldering stench of stupid fucks who couldn't operate a simple copier is hovering like a cloud of swine flu.

Actually, all that adds up to - 4. Maybe if I go ohm-ohm.

"Too new-agey. How about a blood sacrifice?"

Though tempting, there's all that cleanup, so here's some purty music to cleanse the noodle -- wait, what's that? Poland is gonna forget about us?



That's the last piece you're ever playing, chump. Now all you patriotic Americans shut the hell up, I've got to think of whom to sacrifice. Perhaps I'll start with, oh, I don't know, Poland, you ungrateful, malodorous, pianissimo nation of terrorist sympathizers. Long live the American Empire®, a subsidiary of China Corp, your summertime fun headquarters.

A wonderful, magical animal

No, this post isn't about pork chops, bacon or ham, though the last could and should be considered the catalyst of this ramble for, each morning and evening, Tuesday through Saturday, I pass one particular convenient store of an endless number of convenient stores -- perhaps they will be the HQ of our societal downfall, that or the legalization of the ultimate gateway drug which will eventually create a mellow army of heroin addicts easily controlled but what about the cokeheads for they can get crazy and violent betcha didn't think about that I hope you're happy you filthy hippies -- boldly stating that COOKE HAM is for sale. Not VIRGINIA nor MAPLE nor SMOKED, but COOKE.

Was there a person with the surname of Cooke who, through ancient culinary techniques long lost to us head-in-the-sand moderns enslaved by the microwave and its invisible radioactive mind control rays, created this delicacy? Or, more plausibly, did the D simply fall, like David Bowie, to earth, never to be replaced because the manager of the store is of course a lazy American?

Cooke, in my wandering mind fueled by the morning sky whose oppressive, pallid mixture of cobalt and slate grey, pregnant with rain, inevitably led to Crookes, one William Crookes, inventor of the Crookes tube, an item that failed to defeat The Hideous Evil Elbow® in H.P. Lovecraft's The Shunned House, but something else did and thus a happy family now lives there, free of any horror from beyond. Why? They're crazy and violent cokeheads, and that'll scare the hell out of even cosmic terrors, duh.














The moral of this frightening tale? That we should start selling cocaine at your local convenient store.

Keep watching the skies in your mirrors!

When life gives you lemons, buy a used car

Since both liberality and mauigirl have hit me with this particular meme, I'm guessing I have an honest face. Must be the classy monocle.












The Rules, chumps:
1.You must brag about the award.
2.You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to the blogger.
3.You must choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design.
4.Show their names and links and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog.
5.List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself.
Then pass it on with the instructions.

Honestly, honesty isn't always the best policy, so, bien sûr, some of the following ten items might not be 100% truthful. Honest.

1. I have never used Craigslist but I have used eBay. No, not to solicit erotic goods and/or services, you perverts. Unfettered Capitalism®, baby.
2. Christmas 1980 was probably the crystallization of my love of non-illegal substance-induced outer space. Sure, the Shuttle program was in full swing -- yes, kids used to get excited about things off the planet; I bet all the articles I cut out of the newspaper are still sitting yellowfied in a basement box at my folks' place -- but that was when I received the Alpha-1 Rocket Base Lego set. Good times.
3. For someone who digs the occasional spin of obscenely brutal music, I'm not a fan of obscenely loud music outside of a smoke- and sweat-filled concert hall. Look, that's why they invented headphones, you self-centered fuck. I won't blare my shit, you don't blare yours. Especially since your taste sucks.
4. Once I tried spinning Antaeus' Cut Your Flesh and Worship Satan and Bach's St. Matthew Passion simultaneously in hope of supernaturally recreating the angel/devil fight from Animal House. I was unsuccessful.
5. I still greatly enjoy onion rings.
6. The fastest mile I ever ran was 5:09. I would probably throw up before 1:09 if I tried running one now.
7. I'm really struggling to come up with stuff. Honest.
8. Through admittedly limited field work, I have deduced that twiddling one's thumbs doesn't increase brain activity. A large government grant is necessary to further said research, which, if it ever bears fruit, think of the unlimited applications!
9. I never did figure out which one was Pink. My money was on Nick Mason.
10. Lastly, I'm not sorry in the least for the colossal suckitude that is this list. Without the slightest bit of mystery, I'd be revealed as the cosmically boring, basketball-watching, Buffy-salivating dude that I am.

I think everyone has been hit with this. Either that, or I'm too lazy to see who actually has or hasn't (hey, I've got a increasingly unwieldy and horrible paper to finish!) so everyone is tagged.

Except you. You know who you are.

Mad Libs

Yesterday, after I had inhaled Jesus on a piece of toast (noun) and chugged a couple of bottles of dining room set (noun), I sharpened my turpentine (noun) on the nearest fluorescent (adjective) hillbilly (noun).

I wish tasty rocket fuel (noun) didn't cost so much.

Anyway, when I was gravitating (verb) on the camel (mode of transportation) I saw this heroin (noun) and holy fuck, that fucker was sprinting (verb) like Beau Brummel (famous person)!

Then at work, some translucent (adjective) hot pants (noun) was looking for a book on solemnly (adverb) grilling (verb) and I said motherfuckingassholingsonofabitchingfuckingfucker (string of vulgarities) for we only carry tomes on surreptitiously (adverb) whitewashing (verb)!

So I took this delicious (adjective) scrimshaw (noun) down to the dungeon -- didn't know we had a dungeon, didja -- whereby I immediately invoked the plastic (adjective) powers of Hermes Conrad (cartoon character).

"Minions of Hermes Conrad (cartoon character), swiftly iron maiden (medieval torture) the chump and I'll take you to the smelliest (adjective) duck-filled Ziploc bag (noun) you can imagine!"

Eternal summer

A pox upon your house, fell tyrant, weather!















Oh, cold, grey skies, how I miss you so. Sniff.

The family that shreds together, stays together

If someone way back in 1986 would have told a morose, punk-ass, girlfriend-less teenage jerk that nearly a quarter of a century into the future he would be barking MASTER! MASTER! into the mic while his kids thrashed on faux guitars and his sometimes-better-half pounded the virtual, yet plastic, skins in that oh-so-sexy way only a chick drummer can, he would've barked MASTER! MASTER! in your face and gone back to hibernating in the basement with his endless supply of Vernors, metal faces and angst.

There was, however, one moment of seriousness amidst the surreal nuclear familyism: after successfully navigating Ace of Spades (not on Expert+ though, holy fuck, I'll stick with being the pseudo-frontman), the teevee proclaimed that we had unlocked Lemmy. Of course our youngest said the only thing that could have possibly destroyed the collective glee of my wife and I:

"Who's Lemmy?"


















The sting of parental neglect runs deep, but I resolve to be a better father. We'll start with the self-titled debut. No, no, forget about your math homework. This is far more important.

The blood is the life

And the life is, what, companionship, love? The final step, perhaps, but all others that lay before are formed from the trials of emptiness, loss. Unto Ashes' first release since the departure of long-time collaborators Natalia Lincoln and Mariko, The Blood of My Lady is a pensive, acoustic voyage helmed by vocalist and multi-instrumentalist mastermind, Michael Laird, with each of the thirteen tracks flagged by an emphasis on that most intimate of companions. We are fools to think we can escape our troubled selves à l'extérieur. Thus, we keep searching there for someone to join us à l'intérieur, our being all the while a silent, dark calm that belies a turbulent pain unheard save through the irruption of song.

A tumbling, minor chord delicately rolls through the spaces until that moment when the light sparks a reflection of her presence, The Blood of My Lady (Part 1) in liquid, then, before the next step has even begun, the major disappears.

I have seen the blood of my lady
on mossy green rocks that go down to the sea
in small pools the blood and sand are made one
and she comes home to me

This theme is threaded throughout, finding in the encounters of our senses, our memories, a series of symbols that continually unfurl, feeding our emotional past and a hopeful future, forever fated to be intertwined inside the refuge subconsciously fashioned as we search.

Feel hurdy-gurdy physicality balanced against the breezy mandolin, the trees against the breath of reflection in Who Has Seen the Wind, a Sonne Hagel setting of a Christine Rossetti verse; how transient are our senses, these apparitions we conjure before them. In a rare moment of propulsive vibrancy, martial drums Echo In Den Wald, the imprint of a minnesänger charging on his horse, eyes here, there, where lies a (purposely?) missed opportunity of a simple yet haunting four-note closeout, a motif worthy of a song unto itself. Perhaps hope, as always, does nothing but numb -- never simply tease with an overt moment of bliss -- the belief we pretend to find in our senses.

And so we, for a minute or two, stop and listen to the resplendent thickness of Jou-An Hou's solo cello laying all to rest in The Tomb of Your Remains, a ninth-century piece composed by Byzantine abbess Kassia. There is an ancient weight, a timeless, dominating gravitas found in few things outside the object of our search. Three-part Elysian harmonies belie the Vengeance that springs forth unto the world above ever-churning acoustics, carried on updrafts of classical strings.

Voices sleepwalking deep in the mind come, bearing gifts of sparse, troubled pathways, desire within, apologies without. It matters not, dear, for I Will Lead You Down, a scenario played over and over inside, variations on a chord, no mere physical manifestation. What has temptation wrought, what have my faults carved from your being.

And though I lean upon you, I will lead you down my love
And though I kneel beside you, I will throw you down my love
And though I am beneath you, I will pull you down my love

Surrender and live, ideal, through ghostly tides of keys, voiceless, in Our Palace of Ice, built as A Cold Wind (February) blows, reminded by these stark neo-folk measures and a spoken word, spent, of wrongs and renewal with the return of the sun:

thawing ice, and smoothing stones
so my love grows a little each day
The cold wind comes from the sea and moves across the land

Keep looking For All My Broken Promises. I am ready to be forgiven, but is it that simple?

You can blame me now
And though I love you
But who can blame me now?

What can haunt such as doubt shimmering through the boughs, those found amidst The River and the Hawk; again, a spare, troubadour quality, a French horn shield, a exhalation both male and female traversing the hollows up and down the Rhine valley, the fens of England, the backwoods of upstate New York, the serpentine creek crawling through your local park.

The next track is an organic cover of Depeche Mode's Fly on the Windscreen, whose splendid, percussive fade charms The Blood of My Lady (Part 2); hear the reprise of those chords moving at the speed of earth, a deeper voice and now, not alone. Her, at last? No, merely a fading impression of hope coursing through the growing shadow of twilight, the waning of dawn. One does the only thing one can: keep looking, far afield, nearby. Keep looking, for She is Everywhere and Nowhere, a gentle coda of aching piano that finishes this masterwork that is perhaps their finest, most personal statement to date, the end and the beginning.

And she comes home to me...

Champions League

We all know what happened the last few times a Cleveland sporting club was one of the favorites heading into the postseason; see the 1986 Browns, 1987 Browns, 1995 Indians, 1996 Indians for all the gory details. No, the 1997 Indians don't count as they were underdogs against both The Fucking Yankees and the Orioles. En plus, like all the other squads from this goddamn town since 1964, they didn't win jack, jill or the deed to a hill of beans or any other legume.

This time it feels different. Why? Beats me. Doesn't hurt having home court throughout at a place where we were 39-1 when we actually tried to win a game.

Oh, and we also just happen to have the best player in his sport on planet Earth.

The West:
L.A. Lakers vs. Utah. The Jazz simply don't play defense anymore. Lakers in 5.

Portland vs. Houston. In theory, all 4/5 battles should be tough, but poor Houston. They finally avoid their matchup nightmare in Utah, and get stuck playing the team with arguably the most useful parts in the league. Blazers in 7.

Denver vs. New Orleans. Sure, Chris Paul is unquestionably the best player in the series, but Chauncey Billups has calmed down the mile high knucklehead tendencies, thus a thin Hornets bench + thin air = thin chances. Nuggets in 6.

San Antonio vs. Dallas. Duncan and Parker, even without Manu, are bad mammajammas sucka. Yes, I know the Big Fundamental has a bum knee, but their Wile E. Coyote guile saves them and their merry gang of castoffs for at least one round. Spurs in 7.

The East:
Boston vs. Chicago. The lack of KG will catch up to Bah-ston. But not yet. Sorry Bulls, your depth can't help you here. Celtics in 6.

Orlando vs. Philadelphia. Sure, Hedo Turkoglu and Rashard Lewis are banged up, but their team D is, er, magical. Magic in 5.

Atlanta vs. Miami. Dwayne Wade is Buddha, Dwayne Wade is Jesus, Dwayne Wade is Basketball Jesus, Dwayne Wade is Yahweh, Cthulhu and Galactus rolled into one. Who cares. The Hawks have slowed him down, check the box scores, chumps. And MVP voters, this guy? Really? After jobbing LBJ last year to present the dude named after a fucking steak with a lifetime achievement award, you can go fuck your fawning selves. Hawks in 7.

Cleveland vs. Detroit. It begins. Cavs in 4.

The Blogs Have Eyes

When I think of eyes, I think of beauties







and beasts.














As Splotchy sang on his hit 1977 album, Blog Out of Hell, one out of three ain't bad.

No, they're not tilted 'cause I'm blotto. I was mellow and relaxed, as always, despite forgetting my monocle at home.

The following people I poke in the eye:

Freida Bee, because she's too busy to do it.
La Belette Rouge, because I know she won't do it.
Chimpy, because I want to see if he's ever not blotto.

The Prom

What the bloody hell, you kindly ask?
Someone's off-the-wallflower suggestion
sure beats scrambling for another
post about eggs, sunny-side or poached.
A magical night? Sure, fine, whatever, been downhill
from there, chills, maybe the occasional thrill. I think.
O, dearest wife, I kid and a half,
actually two, one for me and one for you.
"Getting off track, marriage boy?"
Oh boy, and how. Where was I? Yeah, the prom.
Dancing with nearly two decades between,
her satin rosy number, like that shot above --
"a flimsy excuse to post some Sarah G."
Hey, it's not as if I'm David B.
"No doubt Mrs. Graves would agree."
Ahem, why reference a show
that wouldn't appear for six more years?
Un, vital part of our cohabitation routine
et deux, poetic license, ever hear of it?
I had a license and wasn't afraid to use it
on a tuxedo; sure fixed my t-shirted wagon.
A white one drove to pick her pink innuendo up.
Things were looking perky, some might even say
back past chez moi to party time, excellent.
Praise Hanz und Franz for obscured lighting,
my, the photographer was frightening,
the then-First Lady in black tie.
The food was alright, the music was worse:
ass factories manufacturing C&C,
Robert Van Winkle imploring us to stop,
collaborate -- listen, this ain't Vichy,
but my stomach'll collaborate with some vomiting --
"must've been that Jersey cheese."
Bad Medicine'll poison your guts every time.
No one likes the grime of Dead Skin Mask?
Such visceral romance is forever lost
as you empty, quotidian souls were.
At you, I scoff. The name's Randal,
Mr. Graves if you're nasty.
"WTF? Been smoking grass, inhaling glue, some gas?"
Cultural touchstones, dumbass.
The question of the post: did Randal dance,
slow? Sure, as slow as my clumsy feet'll go.
Since all night long our tongues were tied
over and around hitting for the cycle,
it's safe to say that she didn't mind.
Until we got ring around the finger
a year past. That post comes later -- six feet under.

Scrambled eggs

Not merely a homage to that greatest of meals, breakfast -- unless beef stew is involved, then prepare the arena for shattered shells, cracked bottles of Real Maple Syrup®, carrots bearing swords, dismembered potatoes and bloody cow parts -- but an extremely clever metaphor of my brain. But not on drugs. Just say no, unless you say yes and it leads to some funky creative output. Don't simply get baked and watch the telly. You can do that shit while sober.

Art, motherfuckers, non panem et circenses, art. Unless the Cavs are on.

One of the multitude of things I do the half-assed American way to "earn" my paycheck is process sexy new periodicals and something that I've noticed in the various literary journals such as the Georgia, Iowa and Goofy Gopher Review is that none of the poets -- ever -- use a traditional form. Ever. I'm not against free as a bird verse, I use the junk myself when warranted, but never never never never do I see it in others, nevermore. In every other field of creation there seems to have been at least a one-night-stand with something retro, a neo-classicism, a garage rock revival. Not poetry. Damn postmodernist hipsters.

I mean

damn

postmod

earnest

hips

terse.

Go sonnets.

Anyway, it's becoming more and more difficult, really difficult, to come up with crap for this dump. I don't know how you non-political fuckers do it post after post, day after day. And you political fuckers are your own special category in the DSM-IV, so I understand completely. Seek help.

Maybe I should start having special scrambled eggs for breakfast. It's not as if I drive to work.

For no one's listening pleasure but my own, here's some



That'll scramble your brain. Good times.


















One last thing, the Blue Jackets finally made the goddamn playoffs. Figures they'd be up against Detroit. Oh well, getting your ass kicked builds angry characters. At least my cable company gets Versus at last so I can watch the Red Wings dispatch in 5.

And what all you sports haters have been waiting for, the rest:
Boston over Montreal in 6. The Bruins won't choke until at least round two.
Pittsburgh over Philadelphia in 6. Hard to beat a team that has two of the three best players on the planet.
Washington over New York in 6. Too much offense vs. pop-gun offense.
New Jersey over Carolina in 7. Sure, the Hurricanes are hotter, but Martin Brodeur has, unlike last year, actual scoring threats in front of him.
San Jose over Anaheim in 6. See Boston/Montreal.
Chicago over Calgary in 5. Man, the Flames look like shit. Does Iginla have malaria? And when did Kiprusoff start playing goal while high?
Vancouver over St. Louis in 5. Plucky Blues won't get past a world-class goalie.














On my signal, unleash bacon and French toast!

Return to Placeholder Place Returns Again

On our last visit to Placeholder Place, the smooth Mr. Smooth was heating himself up some celluloid friction with the vivaciously sultry cigaress, Mary Jane. On the lookout for angry, would-be beau Hunk Johnson, busy off camera boiling his own inept blood, was Sonny the Snitch.







Sonny the Snitch: Knock, knock, knock.






Mary Jane: Hunk! He's here!

Mr. Smooth: Relax, there's no way he could've heard our chin.







Hunk Johnson: Wrong, Smoothie. This plan was duck soup.







Mr. Smooth: Dropped a dime, didn't you, Sonny.

*BLAM!*









Mary Jane: No, Smoothie, I did. Hunk, darling, the loot's in the heap.

*for dramatic purposes, and because the only shot of Rita Hayworth holding a gun that I could find was one of her brandishing blonde hair, pretend that the smoke is from a pistol. I pride myself on consistency, as evidenced here today*







Mr. Smooth: Who knew my last role would be as the patsy?







Hunk Johnson: We knew, Smoothie. Just think of all that scratch, babe, half for you, half for me. And a nickel for a job well done, Sonny.








Sonny the Snitch: Once a third wheel, always a third wheel.

Fin.

Reading Is Fundamentalist

"Fundamental."

Hey, Jesusheads read, too. It's called the Bible, perhaps you've heard of it. Dobson is gonna hear about this outrage, and on today of all days when Our Lord the Smiter of Rabbits rises from his coffin to tell us whether there will be six more weeks of colored eggs in the fridge.

On a more lighthearted note, it's that time of the year again, where I help promote, in my own half-assed way, one of the lower-paying slices of the public pie.

It's National Library Week, secular hedonists!

So, the question remains, in this topsy-turvy, electro-downloadable, shuffling iPod phonetastic, Kindle-iscious world, why should you want to go to an actual building to get an actual physical book and actually read the actual thing, aside from the off chance of encountering someone as spectacularly crabby and hideous as I behind the counter?












"If you don't patronize your local library, I'll cry."



















"If you patronize your local library, I'll send you, yes, you, a pony."














"And another army to Afghanistan."



















"And another army -- oh, you ole dog!"

Self hypnosis

I knew this day would come.



No, not that. We still have a few years at least. I meant working on the first draft of my final paper. The problem is, aside from having to write the damn thing, and in French no less, that I'm currently stuck at work. Thus, how to fend off the crowd of would-be autodidacts and drunken students on a bathroom search whose true goal is constant interruption of yours truly?

"What about this?"


















The two turntables are upstairs and a microphone is down here.

"So that's where it's at. [LAUGH TRACK] Do we have a copy of this?"
















No, I checked. And no use ordering it, I need this done today.

"What about hiring a professional?"

I checked that, too, and the only ones available on such short notice are --















-- Kevin Spacey, who's a wee bit out of my price range, and --













-- Mooselini, and I'm afraid she might hypnotize me into thinking I'm McFossil.

"Aside from the trophy wife and warmongering tendencies, that'll be you in a few decades anyway."

Oh, why did the Democrats cross the road?

So they could say they embraced change.

Bwahahahahaha. Thank you, I'll be here through Saturday, be sure to tip your hypnotist.

Brain Salad Surgery

Mon cerveau reste cassé. No, that's not a shot of my skull, but I'm sure I could use a little touchup here and there in the noggin. Anyway, talk amongst yourselves, peanut gallery. Here are some suggested topics to get you started:

Why the hate for the turnip, the original jack o' lantern?

Two stories on the front page of the local paper today: Pirates proving to be a thorn and Going great guns: sales of firearms on the rise. Should we put the citizen army of Manly Men of Manliness® to good use and send them to deal with those freedom-hating Somali pirates or are their services more urgently needed here as we breathlessly await the violent crackdown of Hussein X?

Glenn Beck: mere depositor of Fox checks or the greatest performance artist of the 21st century?

Ring: Onion or Nibelung?

And most importantly, hot pants: hot pant or the hottest pant?

What a lucky man, he was.

"Who?"

The guy served piping hot onion rings by the chick in hot pants while simultaneously oiling his turnip and carving his M-16 as he counts the dollar signs in his head, preparing for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. Duh.

The Crowd at a Rock Show

From here. Oh, and I'm #16.

Return to Placeholder Place Returns

On our last visit to Placeholder Place, the dashing Hunk Johnson was berating himself off camera as Mr. Smooth, a bruno known for being smooth, hence the clever nickname, was being frictionless with the vivaciously sultry cigaress, Mary Jane -- ostensibly Hunk Johnson's dame -- along with Busty St. Claire and Hooty McBoob, all climaxing in a frictional ménage à trois, without the ménage. Yet.










Busty St. Claire: You know I'm the one that lights your fire.








Hooty McBoob: Wouldn't you rather have breakfast in bed?









Mary Jane: Forget those skirts, Smoothie. Let's make a movie.









Mr. Smooth: Best idea I've heard all day.







Hunk Johnson: So that's your chisel, is it, weak sister?

I've got an idea of my own.

*diabolical laugh that rolls dramatically into the fog*









Mr. Smooth: You sure about Sonny? He's spits too much.









Mary Jane: If Hunk puts the screws on, knock three times.








Sonny the Snitch: Oh, I will, Mary Jane, I will.

Champagne & Reefer

Cruel fate, sheathe your misericordia!
Serendipity, how shall we praise thee?
For I had zip, thus, Wikipedia.
This, that, a birthday search or three, you see.
Ah! A chance through musical media
to promote debauchery, sin and glee --
er, brain, a rhyme? "Encyclopedia."
Thanks, and may your Saturday be Muddy.

Return of the living dead

Your plug was pulled by Nora, The Nurse From Hell.

And now...


















A film one million billion quadrillion times worse!



















Nora, The Chef From Hell!

Bam!

Voting, the final, apocalyptic, eschatological, chainsaw and/or butcher knife wielding democratic process of voting, ends April 17th!

Remember, taxes are due on April 15th, so no bloody -- figuratively and/or literally -- excuses, or I'll eat your brains, assuming you have any, which, if you don't vote for Nora, will prove that you certainly do not, and if you certainly do not, I'll torture you with a patented Randal Run-On Sentence® guaranteed to explode the empty cavity where your brain should be but isn't because you're a schmuck, the shards of your rotted skull ripping through your rancid flesh and out into the open air you sick bastard.

Vote or die!

Oh, you have to enter an email address this time, so no stuffing, and I certainly don't condone creating multiple, throwaway free email accounts to compensate for said limitation, certainly.

Vote or die!